


Gift

by peacehopeandrats



Series: Monthly Rumbelling 2021 [8]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hyperion Heights, Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold as Detective Weaver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:07:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29545590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacehopeandrats/pseuds/peacehopeandrats
Summary: Weaver has come home after a long day and is visited in his dreams, but the evening becomes emotional in more ways than one.Written for February's Monthly Rumbelling
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Series: Monthly Rumbelling 2021 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2088708
Kudos: 11





	Gift

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this little ficlet was taken from the gift box image of the February Monthly Rumbelling moodboard. I also used the smut prompt "Lie back and close your eyes" because there was some sensual stuff going on in here. Moodboard is at this link: https://a-monthly-rumbelling.tumblr.com/post/641933258078257152/prompts-for-february

Weaver dropped his pen and rubbed his temple to try and relieve the strain that had built up there in the past few hours. His work table was littered with evidence bags and boxes, arranged by realm. Most belonged here, but he had managed to weed out some from the realm the curse had dragged him from, and find one or two from his own land. He had one more item to deal with for the night and then he was going to quit. In a land without magic his battle against sleep became futile after a long enough time and the clock had gone midnight twenty minutes ago.

If Belle were here she would be coaxing him to bed right now, but she wasn’t here. His time was his own and he hated it.

The object in the last bag was a necklace. Silver and delicate, with small, clear jewels that made a thin lace pattern at the front. It was one of those items that seemed fancier than it actually was, hoping to be noticed for the sparkle from afar and not caring if it stood up against close scrutiny.

He carefully labeled a new bag with all of the details put on the original, in a close approximation of the same handwriting. Case number, agency and phone number, the cop’s name, and, of course, the name of the victim. There was no pull of magic on it and nothing was familiar about it. The names were just names and not the usual play on words that their curses came up with. Blanchard, Mills, Roni, Rogers, Weaver, Gold… French… As Belle’s name came to his mind, Weaver scrubbed at his face again, this time to clear the moisture from his eyes. It was far too late to be doing this, yet he pressed on, removing the necklace from the bag to examine it properly, just to be sure. 

There was no doubt it was from this realm. The craftsmanship alone spoke of the type of shoddy work done by people who never have enough time on their hands. Even the best efforts from this realm could never compare to the worst of what he’d known from the Enchanted Forest. The work ethic and the ability were simply unparalleled. Turning the item over in his hands, he noticed the dried blood still encrusted into the chain and surrounding stones and was relieved it didn’t belong to anyone he knew. As a detective he could easily say that this amount of blood on a piece of evidence rarely meant a happy ending for the owner.

Sighing, he dropped the silver chain into the bag, listening to the light swish of chains against plastic as it slid to its final resting place. He wondered who had worn it last and what their final moment had been like. Had they died alone, or had there been family around them, crying for help or screaming their wishes for an extension of life that would not be granted? He soon saw Belle, smiling up at him with the warm sun around them, drifting away calmly while he denied her departure and he wondered when she had stopped hearing his voice. 

“Hardly matters now,” he grumped as he sealed the bag, signed and dated it, then shoved back from the desk in a huff that he didn’t really feel. Weaver needed anger now, something to cover up the pain of his empty life, but he just couldn’t summon up enough of it and the words fell flat. He all but threw everything into the appropriate boxes, stuffed the containers onto the proper shelving, then left for the night, his mind in a fog as he got in his car and drove away. The familiar streets were almost unrecognizable in his sad fog of exhaustion, he hardly knew when he’d stopped the engine at his own building, and wasn’t truly aware he was home until his key was in the lock and his hand on the door knob.

It had been a long day, filled with too much avoidance and no one to confide in. Weaver was fed up with the day and wanted a shower, but didn’t even make it past the sofa before he dropped down with all the weight of the world pressing him into the cushions. “Rest my eyes, then bed,” he muttered as the darkness in the unlit apartment was enhanced by the heaviness of his drooping eyelids.

At this hour, traffic outside was light, but now and then he could make out the sounds of big city life. He hated all of it, the random sirens that only reminded him of work, the occasional angry car horn blasting out to disturb everyone within earshot. There was a sort of hiss or rushing sound that no one from the city seemed to recognize, but someone who had lived in solitude found as annoying as a constant ringing in their ears. It was a compilation of distant traffic and people, the sound of too much life piled on top of itself with no way to escape. Sure, sometimes you heard birds, occasionally a squirrel might make an appearance or skitter past a window, but life as he knew it was too removed from what mattered. Rumplestiltskin hadn’t appreciated nature as much as when he’d come here, it was something he simply lived in before this curse. In the Enchanted Forest there was no other way that matched Hyperion Heights, and Storybrooke was small enough that he could almost pretend he was in his castle on top of the mountains, away from everyone and the world itself. No doing that here.

Dishes clanked in the kitchen and Weaver opened one weary eye trying to make sense of the sound. From the corner of his vision he saw the shape of a woman, short, bobbing in place the way someone would if they were standing on tip-toe. One arm was outstretched to grasp at something overhead and another was clinging to the cabinet for balance. He didn’t think, didn’t question why someone would be here with him, he only smiled and closed his eyes again.

“I can get that for you.”

A huff of air followed his statement, along with the light tap of heels on tile. “Why do you insist on putting everything up so high? If Gideon were here it might make sense, but how do _you_ get them down?”

“I don’t,” Weaver answered with a chuckle. “Everything I need is on the bottom shelf. I only have myself to feed. Lowers my standards and my requirements.”

“But doesn’t lower anything else, it would seem.” The cabinet door thumped shut and a sigh followed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Weaver shrugged, a motion that he hoped would seem casual, but turned into a rolling motion that eased tension from his shoulders and back. “It’s all right. I meant to get up and go to bed anyway. Been a long night.” Before the last words had left him, he heard a thump and a hiss of pain and scrambled to his feet, continuing in a rush of desperation as he reached for the light switch and flicked it upwards. “Are you all right?”

In front of him, Belle was hunched over, massaging her calf. “Knocked the coffee table. I’m fine.”

Against his better judgment, Weaver chuckled. “Why didn’t you put the light on to start with?”

“I told you,” Belle pouted as she came over. “I didn’t want to wake you. Besides, it looked like you might have had plans for later.” She nodded down at said coffee table, where a simple brown box lay, perfectly centered.

Grinning, Rumple reached down to pick it up, the chain of Weaver’s thick bracelet clanking where it dangled and tapped over the hard surface. He suddenly felt like a thug, all gaudy jewelry and brute force, trying to win the heart of a woman he most certainly didn’t deserve. Lacey was the perfect fit for a man like Weaver, he had no business being with Belle. Still, he took the box as he dropped back to the sofa and waited for her to sit in the place beside him. 

Belle moved with grace and settled at his side, bright blue eyes drifting downward to study the item he held out. Her palm caressed the bottom of the box and her fingers wrapped around from underneath, delicately brushing against his with a feathery contact that sent chills through his body. How was it that they could have been together for so long and yet even the simplest contact felt electrifying?

He wanted to stay connected, ran his finger over the knuckle of her thumb, where they touched, hoping to lure her to stay, but the inevitability of gift giving was that the other person would eventually need to open the box. Her hand retreated, leaving him feeling cold and alone even though she was right there beside him.

“Just a little something I picked up on my way home,” Rumple told her, even though the memory of getting it felt more like a thought left behind by a curse than something he had actually done.

The box top came off with some difficulty, but once she won the battle against it, Belle’s eyes went wide with surprise. “Oh, Rumple,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.” She reached in and plucked out the necklace from inside, holding it up to the light for inspection.

The sight of the jeweled object dangling from her hand made Weaver’s blood run cold. “No. No, no, no!” Rumple reached out to snatch it from her and stared down at the thing, wanting to hurl it from the room. Belle caught his wrist gently and held him still, but he fought against her. “That wasn’t for you. I _wouldn’t_ have given that to you!”

“Rumple,” Belle whispered as she moved closer to put her free hand to his chest. “Breathe. Tell me what is wrong. Is it the necklace?” She quirked her head to try and study the object they fought over, which only made his gut clench in fear and pain.

“It’s not yours!” Using all of his emotional strength to shove her away, Rumple stood and reached for the necklace, wanting to cover the dried blood with his hand before Belle could see the kind of thing he had brought home for her. “I don’t know how that got here! It wasn’t what I wanted you to have. It wasn’t what I would have chosen. Never, I-”

“I think it’s beautiful.” She tried to reassure him, but he wouldn’t let her, couldn’t let her. They had left all of the pains of his past behind when they left Storybrooke. They were in love and happy now that his evil deeds were a thing of the past. Rumple couldn’t let her relive the sadness or the torments he’d put her through, not again.

Rumple’s hand ran up through Weaver’s hair in frustration and he scanned the room, trying to make sense of everything. Tears filled his eyes at the thought of choosing such a horrible gift for Belle. Not only was it stolen from someone who had suffered, but the blood was still there! The very evidence of the crimes committed so that this simple gift could be given to her was right in front of her very nose! It was all too much. Too much confusion, too much pain, too much worry for chasing her away again. He pointed an accusatory finger at the chain that she refused to relinquish and tried to put distance between himself and the item that so disgusted him.

“That was at the station. I _left it_ in an evidence box. I didn’t bring that here. It’s in a locker in the basement, _sealed_. How did it get here?” Rumple’s eyes darted around, taking in the room as if the guilty party would be standing somewhere visible, but it didn’t take long to find the true culprit. He’d been the only one in the evidence room, the only one in the car, the only one in the house when he got home. Mouth quivering with the strain of holding in his emotions, Rumple pleaded with his wife, begging for forgiveness and reconciliation and understanding, all at once. “I… I couldn’t have done this. I _wouldn’t_ give this to you. It’s part of a _crime_ , Belle. A murder. The only reason I have this is because someone lost their life.”

He moved away and began to pace the room like a caged animal, the events of his past replaying through his mind. How much had he taken from others? How many times had he forced someone into suffering for his own benefit, giggled while they pleaded for mercy, then simply taken what they wouldn’t have given him while they were alive? Was that what this was? Had he done only what was natural for him? Rumplestiltskin had grown beyond that, he’d spent all of Gideon’s childhood making things right, changing. Trinkets like this meant nothing to him any more. He wanted nothing to do with the suffering of others.

“Weaver,” Rumple muttered as he paced. “Weaver did it. He’s uncontrollable. He tortures people to get confessions, drowns them, beats them, uses their criminal background as justification for the things he does… He did this. He somehow got it in here, left it behind.”

“Rumple,” Belle breathed. She dropped the necklace back into the box and hurried to his side to try and still him. Her blue eyes met his, cool ice easing its way to the burning pain in his heart. “ _You’re_ Weaver here. And you _didn’t_ do this.”

He shook his head frantically, wishing it would clear the idea from his mind. “No. No, no. I’m not. I _can’t_ be.” Tears cascaded from his cheeks and he felt his knees go weak. Though Belle tried to support him she couldn’t, and in the end he crumpled to the floor in a fetal lump made of his own torments. “I’m not that man, Belle. I can’t be.”

Soft caresses ran over Rumple’s back and arms as he wept and rocked in place. Slowly Belle’s body molded itself around his and moved with him, holding him through the pain. She whispered to him, but the words couldn’t break the barrier of his guilt and confusion. He was broken before her, shattered into all of the horrible deeds he had done, every squished snail, every selfish deal, every life lost by his own action. Crushed hearts and cowering strangers piled before him in the mess that he was, judging him.

Yet the lilt of Belle’s words was there, like a glue, trying to piece him together. The sound of her voice pressed each rough edge to the next and smoothed them until they fit again. It was a slow process that took more time than he could measure, but eventually he could make out his name, then some words in various places. Eventually whole sentences began to nudge their way into his consciousness and he clung to them as if Belle depended on his listening to keep her going.

“You were a good father to Gideon. We may have had our troubles in the past, but you were a good husband to me. It took work, yes, but _now_ when people hear the name Rumplestiltskin, they think of a hero, a man who would make sacrifices to save others. Weaver is the curse you were given, just like the darkness. You can _fight_ him, Rumple. You already have.”

By the time she was finished, his eyes had resettled on hers. Lost in the love and kindness that she kept there, Rumple began to slow his breathing, calm himself, and think more clearly. “I would _never_ have given you such a gift, Belle.”

“I know,” she assured him. She smiled and the brightness of it lit up her whole face. Rumple knew Belle was trying to distract him, but he couldn’t let the image of her wearing the bloody necklace leave his mind. It clung there in his imagination, tormenting him like the worst nightmare he had ever known.

“Weaver has done so many things. _I_ have done them, Belle. I remember them, I _feel_ them in my hands…” He stared down at his palms, then turned his hands to examine the knuckles, sure that they would be wet with water or blood.

Belle covered them with her own. “That was the _curse_.”

“And what now?” Rumple looked up at her again. “What happens when Weaver isn’t the man they knew? I have to keep going, I have to-” The image of a man’s bloody, broken nose came to his mind and he cringed. “I can’t, Belle.”

“Then don’t.” Still holding his hands in her own, Belle stood and drew him up off of the floor with her. She guided him back to the sofa, then urged him to lie down into the softness of it and covered him with her own body like she was a blanket. “You are the master at deception. I’m sure you will find a way to make them _think_ you’re still the Weaver they all expect to see.”

He tried to sit up and protest, but Belle wouldn’t allow it. “Lie back and close your eyes,” she whispered to him softly as she resettled. Her body was warm and soft above him, and oh, so familiar. Her head resting on his chest was like an incantation, and the most powerful source of magic that had ever struck him. Rumplestiltskin could feel his body responding and allowed himself to be swept away in the sensation, following the flow of blood through his body to where it concentrated, stretching his jeans.

Those same delicate fingers that had taken the box began to work at the fastenings of his clothing, releasing buckle and button until the cloth was loose and his bulge was free. Her weight left him then and cold air struck his length, making him want to cry out in despair, but the sensation lasted for only a breath before heat returned to him, this time moist and perfect.

“You’re my Rumple.” The words were a caress at his neck and a whisper to his ear and he soaked them up as if he were a sponge. Belle moved very little as she spoke, though he could still feel the glide of her folds around him. This wasn’t lovemaking in movement, it was lovemaking in the act of holding and being held, even in the deepest parts of her center. Each shift above him was only as much as a breath, but sent the fire of their love rushing through him. Rumple’s need built gradually, with a slowness that he expected to be painful, but was pure perfection instead and when they burst into and around each other, it was simultaneous. 

Rumplestiltskin had never in his life felt as close to Belle as he did then, not in their first time, not in their last, not in any of the moments between. Every ripple of pleasure was a promise of her love for him and his for her, making him more certain than ever that he was both unworthy of her and deserving.

“I love you, Rumplestiltskin,” Belle sighed into his ear as she settled over him.

Trying to wrap her in his arms, Rumple moved a hand, but found it caught up in his own clothing. The surprise of what shouldn’t have been forced his eyes to open and he took in the darkness with a sigh. Empty but for himself, his living room was quiet and still, just as he had found it when he’d stumbled in. 

“Belle…” He whimpered into the night, hoping that saying her name would somehow bring her closer again, though he knew his chance was gone. Rolling to his side, he stared at the barren coffee table and released a long breath of mixed emotion. No box, no necklace, nothing to torture him but his own past. She wanted him to move on, Rumple knew that, but leaving the room now felt like more than continuing life, it felt like abandonment of all he loved. Instead he resettled himself on the couch, to be surrounded in the place where he’d last seen her, even if it had only been as a dream, and allowed rest to properly claim him.


End file.
